Mistletoe Makes Everything Better
by Disguise of Carnivorism
Summary: A heart-warming tale of love and personal discovery, Christmas-style. Because all fictional characters must be BDSM fiends.
1. Chapter 1

**Carni's Note:** Attention to all of you who believed the summary: Be warned now that none of that is taking place******—**not even the BDSM fiend part. That's right, we lied. This story has nothing to do with heart-warming Christmas cheer. In fact, it deals with the kidnapping of Mr. Claus' heir, L Lawliet, and Light Yagami's rise to power. If you want the heart warming tale, I suggest you look at the fic nextdoor, the one about Wammy's Christmas. You know the one I'm talking about. To the rest of you, who have read this author's note and wish to continue (or to those of you who have skipped this note entirely): Congratulations, you are our kind of people. Sit back, laugh, and enjoy.

* * *

**_Mistletoe Makes Everything Better_**

**New York Times—11/06/09**

**SANTA CLAUS PULLS AN ELVIS**

**[…is found dead in the bathtub after suffering from a severe heart attack]**

On November the Fifth, the unfortunate Mr. Claus, with his rosy cheeks and his great white beard, was found deceased on the bathroom floor. An autopsy at a hospital in Greenland later showed that the Grandfather of Christmas suffered a heart attack—no doubt the result of his rather fattening diet.

Remember those cookies we left out every Christmas Eve? Remember those sugar-filled treats we left out for him in front of the chimney, with a glass of milk on the side? Yes, dear reader, we are to blame for the death of dear Mr. Claus. It was our hands, covered in oven mitts, that pulled those cookies from the oven and encouraged the clogging of his arteries.

We must ask ourselves: Did we truly believe he was immortal? That any man could survive so many blasted cookies? When we were children, weren't we told to watch our weight and never to eat one cookie—let alone a dozen at every house in the world? Well?

Mrs. Claus was reported to be very upset at the death of her husband, and with no heir directly in line for Mr. Claus, it appears that Christmas will have to be pushed back to May. I hope you're happy, fat, and as much of a bastard as ever, you sick American pigs. You ruined yet another holiday—wasn't the Easter bunny enough?

Angry, disgruntled, and once again losing faith in humanity, this is your reporter, Mihael Keehl, about to get fired from his job.

Now, to entertain you on page 4B, there is a picture of a bunny with a pancake on his head. If there isn't, someone in the picture department is going to have Hell to pay—"Hell," meaning the bribe I gave them during the lunch hour.

Good night, New York City.

_  
Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree, for me_

**The Underground Messenger—11/12/09**

**SANTA'S LONG LOST HEIR EMERGES**

**[…apparently under the influence of some form of bizarre blood compulsion]**

Welcome to the Underground Messenger, newspaper dedicated to discovering the real story of the strange case of Mr. Claus and his rather unfortunate nephew. Personally, I believe he was addicted to heroine and was dating some crack-whore he found in an alley. That's my theory. This newspaper is dedicated to the truth regarding Mr. Claus and all his affairs: What was his crack-whore's name, who put the arsenic in his milk, and more! As you know, today, Santa's heir was revealed during an Interpol meeting to be the detective L (otherwise known as the Greatest Detective in the World).

But what was the truth? Did he come out with this declaration in joy, in rage, in sorrow? Your reporter, Mello, recently fired from the New York Times staff, used his inside connections with the mafia to get the truth.

Apparently, in what seems to be a complete mental collapse at exactly 11:53 a.m., L blurted out the fact that he was Saint Nicholas' long lost heir come to claim his throne. He immediately took back the proclamation and began cursing in Arabic. Of course, his mouth then spewed out that he wasn't lying, which is about the time he started swearing again.

Watari was reported to have stood rather awkwardly, not quite sure what to say to his benefactor's mental break down as he waited for it to be over. But it was not. Due to DNA testing performed, it was found that L Lawliet is indeed Santa Claus' heir, and was compelled by some genetic fluke ("the power of Christmas," the fanatics would say) to claim the identity of Santa Claus.

This gene in Santa's line might also be called magic, the magic that allowed Mr. Claus to dedicate his entire existence to supplying the joy of Christmas. In person, L is reported to be a pale, frighteningly thin, dark-haired young man that reminds one of a corpse, more than the bearded fat man we have all come to love so dearly. The poets have already begun to write of the horrors that shall ensue.

'Twas the night before Christmas

and there was no 'all through the house'

because the people were hiding

they even took the mouse*

Could this be the end of dear old Santa Claus?

By the by, check out page 3C; there's a lovely picture of Santa Claus trying to be a nude Marilyn Monroe…. I'm serious. Our editor has a bit of a Santa Claus fetish…

*Yes, it's terrible poetry. I don't care. This newspaper can't afford to fire me; I'm their only source of income. So HAH.

_  
I've been an awful good girl_

**The Tree of Knowledge—11/16/09**

**Meet Jolly Old Saint Nick's Replacement**

L Lawliet, otherwise known as the former detective L, sat rather glumly on The Tree of Knowledge's stage, avoiding the gaze of the camera. Placing several cubes of sugar on his tongue (the camera man later reported that it had been at least five), he proceeded to swallow them, then dropped even more into the milky cup of tea before of him. Perched on the armchair like a crippled black bird (because even healthy black birds didn't hunch quite that drastically when they sat upon a branch), he watched the host of the show attempt to conduct an interview. At this point, the poor man appeared to be trying not to cry out, "What the hell are you doing?"

"So, Mr. Lawliet, it is reported by the workers at the North Pole and Mrs. Claus herself that you are the sole heir to Mr. Claus's position as Father Christmas." Matsuda shuffled his cards and smiled as he waited for the man to respond; it took a good minute before the man lifted his dark eyes from his tea and sugar cubes, and another minute passed before he said anything at all.

"Unfortunately," was all he said after the pause, helping himself to the plate of cookies that was supposed to be used for decoration. Obviously, he didn't care about the artful arrangement of Christmas decor.

"Do you think you are prepared to take on the role of Father Christmas? After all, it is a very hefty responsibility, and you have a lot to live up to. Your late uncle, Mr. Claus, was deemed a saint back in the fifteen hundreds, and you're so… young." Matsuda gave off a small laugh, attempting to pass off the awkward joke, yet failing. The producers were cringing, but if they didn't conduct the interview, ten other shows would snatch the opportunity up, and they would be screwed in the ratings.

"Nicholas Claus, a saint, wasting his life away on snot-nosed, spoiled little brats who want the next Guitar-Hero for Christmas. Is that what being a saint entails? Two days ago, I was a detective—the best detective in the world to be exact. I worked my way from the status of an orphan to become one of the most powerful men on Earth, and you want me to become a saint. How charming. By the way, I'm not young. I'm at least two centuries older than you." The cookies disappeared rapidly as the man's monotonous tone swelled out towards the audience, which was composed mainly of snot nosed spoiled brats who wanted Guitar-Hero for Christmas.

"Yes, well, spreading joy is a part of Christmas, isn't it?" Matsuda ignored the jab on his age and proceeding to the next question.

"When I was twelve, I was working my ass off sending rapists and murderers to prison. What the hell would I know about joy?"

By this time, the audience (the ones that hadn't turned off the television at the word 'hell') realized that he was attempting to start a riot.

"Yes, well, you did, two days ago, give up your identity as the detective L in order to succeed your uncle. So I have to assume this is your choice. You do understand that you're a hypocrite."

"You think I wanted to stop being a detective? You think I want to squeeze down a chimney every night, working my ass off for no pay but a pile of burnt cookies? Because these, by the way, are terrible. They taste like cardboard."

Someone had neglected to inform Mr. Lawliet that the cookies were cardboard.

"No, I hate children. I grew up in an orphanage because I couldn't stand children. I would rather be sitting, water-logged, in the middle of England than ever go back to the North Pole. Do you know what it's like there? They sing. All the time. It's the most mentally disturbing place I have ever visited. You want to reform criminals, you want to torture a terrorist? Send them up North; they'll be well-treated. So the answer is, I never wanted to take this position, I hate every second of it—but I have no choice."

Matsuda stared blankly at the detective, with his interview ruined, his audience in shocked tears, and his producers gathering the pitch forks and torches.

"Yes, well then. Next question." Awkward throat-clearing. "Tell me, Mr. Lawliet, how you will manage to grow the beard and gain the weight in time?"

"Perhaps your children will have to learn to get used to seeing a man that looks like an anorexic rapist rummaging through their stockings."

No one spoke, no one whispered; the emergency broadcasting signal came on, and Matsuda decided it was high time he cut to commercials and get fired from his job.

_Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight_

_

* * *

_**Scourge's Note:** If you loved it, reviews would be splendid; if you thought it was moronic, reviews would be splendid; if you wanted to burn your computer screen, reviews would be splendid. If you want me to jump off a cliff for even conceiving of this notion, reviews would also be splendid. (Because this was my fault. Entirely my fault. Carni should not let me convince her to actually _write out_ the parody plot bunnies.)

Also, Carni is in denial. The BDSM does happen.**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** There once was a girl who forgot to put legal disclaimers on her fanfiction. The lawyers sent a spoon-wielding assassin after her. After being repeatedly beaten with kitchen utensils over the course of twenty years, she died. Nightmare Before Christmas and Death Note still do not belong to her.

* * *

**_Mistletoe Makes Everything Better_**

**Police Phone Call Transcripts—11/21/09**

**Prank Caller**

**"**Hello, what's your emergency?" Soichiro had to wonder what moron had forwarded the call to the chief of police. He drank some of the coffee in front of him, idly rearranging various apologetic adjectives he could string together while explaining the late night to his wife.

"I hate to bother you; I'm not sure what the time is in your country right now, but I thought it best to give you a call before all Hell breaks loose." It was a woman, evidently—a young woman, not the type of person to prank call (her voice was too serious), but also certainly not the type that was caught in an emergency.

"What's your emergency?"

"Yes, well, Mr. Claus has gone missing."

"Mr. Claus has been dead of a heart attack for a few weeks now." Damn, Soichiro hated the conspiracy theorists. They wouldn't stop calling, and somehow they always managed to successfully navigate the endless layers of communication blockades to reach _him_.

"No, Mr. Lawliet. He's been kidnapped by the Pumpkin King. I thought it best to give you warning before the news gets to the press."

Oh dear Lord. Not only was it a conspiracy theorist, it was an insane one. Why did the insane ones call him? Couldn't they call Aizawa or Ide? They used to call Matsuda, until he was fired for incompetence—why did they have to fire Matsuda?

"There is no such thing as the Pumpkin King. What is the emergency?"

They should start charging people for calling, they really should.

"Yes, there is, and you will be hearing a lot about him if you don't find Mr. Lawliet soon. I believed it prudent to alert you, given the situation—but obviously, you aren't getting the hint. Next time I call, you better be on your knees begging for forgiveness, you son of a bitch."

She hung up abruptly. Soichiro swallowed down more of his coffee and proceeded to make his way home. Aizawa could answer the next call.

_Santa baby, an out-of-space convertible too, light blue_

**The Underground Messenger—11/21/09**

**THE GRINCH STEALS CHRISTMAS**

**[…yes, really]**

No, not the live action film with Jim Carrey. This time, Christmas has been stolen by a much less green villain. And his heart is probably smaller, were it possible. No, this villain of Christmas is known only as the Pumpkin King—some cross between the Joker and the Green Goblin, I would propose. Despite the onslaught of childhood images from _It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_, one must realize that this evil persona has stolen Christmas.

By Christmas, we of course mean Mr. Lawliet, or the new Santa Claus. Oh, how we mourn this day, when we have nothing left of our hope. Pandora's Box has been opened and we have not a single dream for our futures, now that Christmas has flown away. The pain, the horror, the terror, the lack of sources is abominable!

The Japanese Police, being the brave gentlemen that they are, have decided to repress information from the media. Why the Japanese Police are in charge of the investigation, no one knows, especially because hardly any celebrate the Christian holiday in Japan, compared to various western countries. But this morning, around midnight, a distraught woman called the NPA, informing the police of the missing heir and described how he had been spirited away in the night by some demon with the name of Pumpkin King. And yet, the police turned her away in tears, calling her an insane wench who belonged in an asylum.

The corruption of today's police force astounds me. How vile they are, how evil and despicable, to deny the need of Christmas for the sole purpose of protecting the Pumpkin King's true identity. The truth, my dear readers, the truth, as always is an enigma—but today, thanks to our insider at the North Pole, the truth is clear. The police are the true villains in this tale—the Pumpkin King is merely a fabrication of the NPA. Or, rather, the bastard son of Soichiro Yagami come to wreak revenge on the world for being an unloved orphan with a complex for comic book villains.

The truth, my dear readers, is yours for the taking. Dare you look?

(Page 1D: Drawn picture of Mr. Lawliet in tasteful nude. Not quite as disgusting as you might think.)

_I'll wait up for you dear_

**The Tree of Knowledge—11/22/09**

**Chief of Police Suffers Mental Break**

"Ms. Kiyomi Takada, reporting from the NPA headquarters where Soichiro Yagami has locked himself in his office and is refusing to emerge. After reading the Underground Messenger, Mr. Yagami called his wife and discovered the identity of the Pumpkin King as his wife's illegitimate," a pause and a suggestive wink, "child."

The camera zoomed in on the door.

"The child was born about twenty-four years ago to the former Pumpkin King (known only by the name of Kushiel, who is now presumably deceased; his legacy is continued by his son, Light Kushiel.) Due to various naming traditions of his homeland, the child was given his father's first name in replacement of his last, and does not, conveniently enough, identify himself with the Japanese chief of police's family. Regardless, with his wife's long lost son on the horizon, Soichiro was reported to have a melt down during the middle of his work day. Perhaps we can coax him out of the office."

The camera zoomed in on the door handle.

"Mr. Yagami, this is Ms. Takada of The Tree of Knowledge, hoping to partake of your fruit."

There was no answer from inside the office; the poor man no doubt found himself dumbfounded by the unintentional sexual innuendo of the show's catch phrase.

The camera zoomed in on the keyhole.

"Rather, we were wondering what your thoughts were on the revelation of your wife's illegitimate," a suggestive pause and a not-quite-suggestive wink, "child?"

The camera zoomed in on Takada's v-neck shirt, revealing a disgustingly unnecessary amount of skin.

"Your wife, Sachiko Yagami, reports to having been raped, violated, and completely and utterly unresponsive during her relations with the former Pumpkin King, Kushiel. She says that she would never have willingly betrayed you for the bed of the angel of punishment."

Still no answer. Takada frowned, then brightened with the thought of another interview question. "The world is wondering, Mr. Yagami, how your daughter is taking the news of her psychotic half-brother who just ruined one of the world's favorite holidays?"

The handle turned. Soichiro opened the door and threw a stapler at Ms. Kiyomi Takada's head.

_Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight_

**The Underground Messenger—11/22/09**

**THAT BITCH STOLE OUR FEED**

**[…she will be dealt with]**

(Though Naomi Misora searched for the rest of the article to place in her scrap book, she couldn't find anything but a rather lewd picture of Persephone posing as L Lawliet's child-bride.)

_Think of all the fun I've missed_

**The Underground Messenger—11/23/09**

**THE NORTH POLE LOOKS LIKE MY UNDERWEAR DRAWER**

**[…read: is in utter disarray]**

We declare press war against the Tree of Knowledge, otherwise known as porn posing as news. No, we will not partake of your fruit, you whore, no matter how many times they zoom in on your skanky tops.

That is why I am in the North Pole, namely, Santa's Work Shop, inspecting the chaos that has ensued since the demise of Mr. Claus and the kidnapping of Mr. Lawliet. The work shop is in shambles, the toys are hideous (horrible stitching, terrible painting, ill-fitting pieces), and the elves are drinking themselves to death on eggnog. Happy has reported going blind after drinking fourteen shots of the stuff.

Talking with the Head Elf, Near, I decided to get the inside scoop on the Santa Fiasco. "Yes, it has been rather disorganized since the disappearance of Mr. Claus. We can only hope he will be returned to us before Christmas begins, but it does seem as if Christmas will have to be delayed this year due to the unfortunate circumstances."

Small and white-haired, Near appears to be a fourteen year-old child—and yet you have the feeling that he has lived centuries. Or rather, he acts like he has lived for centuries, being the most boring speaker I've ever had the pleasure of making conversation with.

"I noticed the state of some of the toys—how they appear broken and unusable by the child they were intended for."

"No, our elves are highly trained in the art of toy-making; they spend years under apprenticeship in the arts of painting, stitching, building, and other such skills. You have no need to worry about the quality of our work. We know what we are doing."

At this point, I noticed a rather bored-looking woman collapsed in a chair. Taller than all the other elves by a mile, and with ears quite a deal less pointy, she rolled a toy train across an empty desk with a look of complete and utter disinterest etched across her features. I couldn't help but notice the pile of broken toys on either side of the table, the amount of destruction this one dark-haired not-quite-elf had created.

"What about her?" I asked the Head-Elf.

He turned, looked at her (well, more glared, now that I think about it), and then turned back to me.

"That would be Naomi Misora. Her father was a human, one of those explorers from the sixteen hundreds."

As if that were supposed to explain everything, which it didn't—but then, that's elf humor for you. It's terrible. Indeed, we must remember L Lawliet's words: The North Pole is Hell. I hate to say it, but I agree with him completely. The singing is abominable. The truth is the truth, and the truth, like a coal filled stocking, hurts like hell.

(Page 1C: Picture of Persephone… yet again…. Our editor has found a new obsession.)

_Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed_

_

* * *

_

**Scourge's Note:** Welllll. The first move is made. No chains are in sight. WILL OUR HEROES EVER TIE EACH OTHER UP, PUT ON BLINDFOLDS, AND HAVE ROUGH SEX? (Carni says no. Scourge is convinced that depends on who you define as the hero, and whether or not eyelids count as blindfolds.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Scourge's Note:** Thanks for keeping up with us this far, readers and reviewers. You're rather awesome and whatnot.

* * *

**_Mistletoe Makes Everything Better_**

**The Tree of Knowledge—11/27/09**

**Meet the Pumpkin King**

"Mr. Kushiel, is it? Will you partake of our fruit?" asked Takada, leaning across her desk to get a better look at the Pumpkin King and laying a hand on his arm.

"Call me Light. My father would not appreciate being tagged onto my last name like a puppy." Thin and refined, he did not remind anyone in the audience of a pumpkin. His light brown hair and his golden eyes reminded one of golden wine and candle-light, of a romantic dinner and the more sensual events afterwards. His pale skin and his dark clothing had the female audience, and some of the males, drooling.

"Yes, of course, Light." The groping hand moved up a bit. He sneered and swatted it off. "Er. So did you truly kidnap L Lawliet, the heir of Christmas?" She could think of nothing better to say while trapped by his eyes. Her face had turned bright red, a fact that was hardly concealed by her make-up.

"Of course. I'm the king of Halloween—I cause chaos and destruction. I am your Hades, your Lucifer, your angel of Death; I do what I can and destroy what I must. Christmas seemed like an ample opportunity, one far too brilliant for me to pass up."

"King of Destruction, surely there is a better position for you to take in life—something more akin to the feeling of Christmas that we humans hold dear."

"Have you listened to a word I said? I pretty well told you I'm the Devil—and you just told me to be nicer?"

"Even the Devil has a soul."

"Yes, I'll be sure to remember that next time when I come after yours. "

Takada paused. She watched as Light glared at her, daring her to speak.

"When do you believe you will return Mr. Lawliet to the North Pole?"

"Soon enough. He's a whiner—doesn't like the rack too much. One can hear his screams throughout all of Halloween Town, wailing and cursing… it's very irritating."

Somehow, all the female listeners managed a sigh, imagining that tone of voice across the candle-lit dinner table rather than listening to the actual words.

"That's so generous of you."

"I know."

_Next year I could be oh so good_

**Naomi's Autobiography—memory from early November**

**Chapter One: Regarding My Initial Acquaintance With the Infamous Pumpkin King**

Born a poor half-breed child in the sixteen hundreds, absolutely nothing happened to me until two thousand nine.

I was working in the North Pole when I first saw him. I was looking outside a stained glass window, watching the snow fall outside—how it was lit by the colored lights outside. And then he was there, running about like a chicken with his head cut off. He looked as if he had died and gone to heaven, although no one I know would ever consider the North Pole heaven.

He was smiling, laughing—he was dancing through the snow, his face alight with a joy only seen in a place that wasn't filled with Christmas. He looked genuinely happy, for which I would call him completely mad. He also ran into a light pole and knocked himself out.

I decided that since nothing interesting happened in my life anyway, I should rescue him from the snow. He was like no one I had ever seen; dressed in a black pinstriped suit, he was tall as a human and paler than the moon—even the red in his hair looked ominous. Red was such an odd color, joyous in Christmas Town… and yet this man, in one sighting, changed the color in my mind forever.

I put him in my apartment, laying him down on my bed while I waited for him to wake up on his own and hoped to God he didn't get a fever. The last thing I needed was Near to come snooping about, assuming I'd taken a lover. That would certainly get me thrown out, even if the toys did not.

It took half the night before he finally was coherent and able to talk—he called himself the Pumpkin King, despite the fact that he looked absolutely nothing like a pumpkin. He looked rather like some fallen angel, some dark and powerful god of death; surrounded by the colorless walls of my room, he looked even more ominous.

"What brings you to Christmas Town?" I asked him, genuinely curious to know what had brought him to the glittering bliss that had been my home town for centuries.

"Boredom, sheer boredom that is eating me alive slowly and surely, driving me mad. Insanity has brought me to your town and I am sick of it. Christmas…" He stood. Shaking with effort, he began to pace back and forth in my cramped quarters, a puzzled frown on his face as he lost himself in thought (and it was far from any expression I had seen on an Elf's features—he was far darker than any creature I had ever seen).

"Who rules this Christmas Town?" he asked suddenly, halting in front of the decorated mirror that reflected his golden eyes.

"Saint Nicholas." I shrugged, ignoring the way his eyes seemed to light at the information, how the smile stretched across his face. It wasn't until later that I would realize what kind of information I had given him.

It wasn't coincidence that Santa Claus died of a heart attack only weeks later. I couldn't help but think of the stranger and his cruel eyes, the way he seemed so grateful that I pulled him feverish and freezing out of the snowfall.

Perhaps that was what prompted me to begin sending information to the outside world. Perhaps I decided then and there that it was high time I left Christmas Land.

_If you'd check off my Christmas list_

**Files of Doctor Lawrence G. Philmore—memory from sixth day of captivity**

**L Lawliet: Meeting Seven**

"They called him the Boogey Man; or rather, the citizens of Halloween Town did. Light preferred to call him Ryuk. They took me in a walking bath tub down into his lair—in a trash bag, I might add." The former heir took a swallow of water before continuing his retelling. "He looked like a demon. Dark ragged wings, yellow marble eyes with red pupils… I can hardly describe his clown smile and his hyena's laugh."

He stopped speaking to eat another cookie.

"Ryuk was very good at torture. It wasn't what he did to you physically, which was very painful, but what he did psychologically. And again, he was very good at this. After all, the only limit Light left the monster was that he couldn't kill me. Quite a lot of room for creativity."

He shuddered and ate another cookie.

"And Light would come in every once in a while, a smile plastered to his pasty face. He would ask how my day was going. The bastard, complete bastard, I hate him so much. Of course, there was something about him…"

He ate another cookie; they were rapidly disappearing.

"Were you sexually attracted to Mr. Light Kushiel?" asked the therapist, watching as the former detective choked on the cookie he was eating.

"Dear Lord, no, he was a complete narcissistic bastard who left me to die at the hands of a god of death who found entertainment out of my physical pain. He was a complete and utter bastard, and I hope you remember that next time your daughter sets cookies out by the fire place—think about what kind of man she is inviting down her chimney!"

The last cookie disappeared and the therapist attempted not to show his distaste at the idea of his daughter setting out Christmas cookies.

_Boo doo bee doo_

**The Underground Messenger—11/28/09**

**TREE OF KNOWLEDGE DOES NOT ACKNOWLEDGE**

**[…the fruit tasted like sweet monkey love on a table… with a necrophilic old man]**

How dare you ignore us, you whore. That's right. I, Mello, pursuer of all truth concerning Saint Nicholas, called you a whore. Not just any whore, I might add—dumb one who can't even perfect the art of gold digging. Take your fruit elsewhere; no one wants to eat a rotting apple. Bitch.

When a press war is called, it cannot be ignored. YOU CAN'T IGNORE A PRESS WAR! Your tree will be burned, your studio will be pillaged, and your staff will be raped. You will not, however, as you might actually enjoy it. And really, where's the fun in that.

By the way, no one enjoys your low cut tops, NO ONE. The plastic surgery is blatantly obvious; we can see the scars. Besides, they're sagging below your knees anyway.

Mello out,

Post Script

(As always, this edition seems to be dedicated more to pornography than actual stories. Check out the front cover—a lovely picture of Takada being raped by a series of elves. I enjoyed it, at least. Page 1D, however, is filled with BDSM drawings of Persephone. Drawn by our fans, I might add….

Get a life….)

_Santa honey, I wanna yacht and really that's_

**The Underground Messenger—11/30/09**

**EVEN SANTA HAS PICKETERS**

**[…their signs are just as boring as everyone else's]**

Walking outside the gates of Halloween Town, one might notice the mass of protesters gathered outside the blackened gates. A sea of colorful signs proclaiming the joy of Christmas wait beyond the walls of the city, howling for the freedom of the poor Mr. Claus from captivity. Several curious citizens watch, slightly amused.

I, Mello, decided to see what all the hub-bub was about. Like my journaling self, I burrowed to the heart of the matter. "Free the Sandy Claws," I was informed by the Halloween Town resident Misa Amane, a blonde rag doll created by the Pumpkin King (or so she claimed).

"Yeah, they want Light to free the Sandy Claws. I don't know why they want him back, though—he didn't look much like a lobster."

Very beautiful and with better stitching than half the dolls in the North Pole, Misa made up for this with her lack of brains.

"So what do you think of the protests? Do you think he should be released back to the North Pole?"

"I'm sure Light knows what he's doing; he always does. He's a genius, you know."

Genius, yes, well when you call yourself Pumpkin King with a straight face, I find it difficult to call you a genius.

"He's got some bigger plot in mind, and even if it's a bit out of his way, I'm sure he has a plan that we just can't see yet—like an unfinished ginger bread cookie where the ingredients are spread all across the table. See, there's the brown sugar, the gum drop buttons, those cute icing eyes…."

I was so disgusted I refuse to report the details of what the rest of this conversation entailed (mainly me being horrified by the idea that oozing monsters can be referred to as gum drop buttons). My eyes, I think they're bleeding. I don't know if I can write anymore. Then I'll have to get a real job. DEAR LORD.

"Light made me, you know—stitched me up himself, although I think he said he forgot something…"

Her brain perhaps?

"Oh, my virginity! I REMEMBER NOW!"

Too much information, perhaps? Well, not for this newspaper. Good Lord, we have everything in this newspaper. I refuse to write anymore—I am scarred for life. Do not visit Halloween Town unless you wish to feel empty inside, like a stocking abandoned in the soot by a neglectful fat bastard.

Post script

On the bottom of this page you may note a drawing of Misa…. Sadly, that's what she actually looked like. Stare all you like—the dress doesn't get any longer. I've tried.

_Not a lot_


	4. Chapter 4

**Scourge's Note**: Now is the is-it-or-is-it-not BDSM. YOU DECIDE. Also, my MSWord told me that incestual is a real word. Which it isn't. Anyway, if you're offended by insinuated incest and more than insinuated bad smut scenes, look away. Also, thanks readers and reviewers. You guys rock our socks 'n stuff. We do appreciate your patronage and enjoy hearing more from you.

* * *

**Naomi's Autobiography—narrative extrapolation on 12/05/09's Tree of Knowledge interviews**

**The Elusive Step-Father of Light Kushiel: First and Only Voluntary Public Appearance**

"Good evening. Welcome to the Tree of Knowledge. Will you partake of our fruit? I am here with Soichiro and Sayu Yagami to interview them about the notorious Pumpkin King."

The cameraman, it was noted, had a strange fascination with chest zoom-ins, especially when concerning the hostess herself. The small Yagami girl, sadly, was too young to be any fun—that, and she was wearing a turtleneck, no doubt at the prodding of her fauther. Conservative git. Takada leaned toward the middle-aged man, who looked like he had been through hell and back again, and said in her most seductive voice… (well, really, it was the one she used in normal conversation—but no one actually cared about that)… "So, Mr. Yagami, how do you feel about your wife's bastard child?"

She neglected to use the words lickable and sexalicious, but everyone knew what was going through both her head, and the heads of the entire female audience. Even Sayu, with her turtleneck sweater, imagined up the word sexy and an image of handcuffs. She lived with a policeman—she had to know about handcuffs.

"You know I'm a police chief, and yet you had the impudence to kidnap me, drug me, beat me—and I'm pretty damn sure you molested me in the car—in order to drag me to your studio for a national interview. You are by far the most idiotic woman I have ever met, and I will have a warrant for your arrest as soon as you release my daughter and me." The poor police man was covered in a myriad bruises and small cuts. His middle-aged face looked as if it had been stuck into a blender in order to make a cannibal's smoothie. Luckily, the camera did not linger on him, preferring instead to rest upon the hemline of Takada's shirt.

"Well then, we'll just have to make sure you never leave." Her voice was one made for candlelit rooms and steaming Jacuzzis where Light Kushiel's delicious body waited, clad only in a leopard-print Speedo, holding a glass or two of champagne with the stereo system crooning romantic jazz in the background. It was not, however, meant for the middle-aged stepfather of such a glorious being—in fact, when directed at said stepfather, it was rather disturbing.

"Are you admitting to holding the Japanese police chief and his daughter hostage on national television?"

There was an awkward pause, in which the vision of Light Kushiel was ruined. The female audience was banging their heads in frustration.

"…Only if he wants to be held hostage." She neglected to mention the fact that a pair of silver handcuffs waited in her storage closet, ready for action.

"No. I don't."

"Ew." The small girl in her turtleneck sweater looked about ready to cough up several dozen hairballs and half of her vital organs. Needless to say, she was not thinking of Light Kushiel.

Takada blinked. "Yes, well, you never answered how you feel about your bastard child." Attempting to get the conversation back to the more desirable topic—the topic that filled the station with a female audience, rather than the young male population it had previously been supported by—Takada lowered the seduction in her voice by fifteen percent.

"I now understand why you didn't interview my wife. It's nice to know she won't be having an affair twice." Low blow, Chief Yagami, far below the belt—but perhaps Takada wanted to be hit below the belt. Above the belt, Yagami, above the belt.

"Your son, Yagami. Everyone is waiting for details on your… son…." In the space between the words "your" and "son," many adjectives could have been added. Adjectives such as: Sweat-producing; graceful as a ballet-dancing cat; sexy as the vampire Lestat was before Tom Cruise decided it would be a good idea to ruin him; and child that makes me want to drop to my knees and beg like a dog in a choke collar to take me on his bed (or against a wall—whatever he preferred). The female thought they were quite creative.

"He's not my son. He is the product of my wife's affair with a seraphim." And far better looking than Soichiro; Soichiro would not look good in a Jacuzzi and a leopard-print Speedo. The thought disgusted everyone.

"Well, what do you think of him?" Him being the glorious nephilim that caused half the population to want to invest in S and M supplies, stock up their closets with handcuffs, and install rings (to which chains and manacles could be attached) on miscellaneous items of furniture—such as a grand piano. You never know when you're going to need to break a grand piano. With chains. And sweet monkey love on a table… except on a piano.

"I think he's not related to me." Yes, well, a good thing too—who wanted to have two lickable men on television at once? The female population was already suffering from mass hysteria and fainting spells from just one Light Kushiel. A sexy father might have been too much.

"What about you, Sayu. What do you think of Light Kushiel?" If Sayu had been older, she might have used the phrases like… mmmpanda, he must smell like erotic chocolate-covered strawberries, or down on your knees, clothes on the floor sheets ripped apart in demon-powered super sex. Or perhaps she might even have said, "Let's break the bed and-or desk in our haste to rip off each other's clothes and have sex nonstop, as you are immortal and can party all night long!"

"I think he's hot," is what she did say—a bit of an understatement, but the audience agreed with her none the less… if somewhat less enthusiastically than they might have if granted more details. Mainly ones involving actual sexual organs.

Soichiro, of course, had a mad fit, as he didn't see the forbidden joys of incestuous relationships with a nephilim. Takada, however, was fully aware of these joys.

"Are you aware that you are openly pursuing a relationship with your half brother?" she asked innocently. In actuality, there was no question. Every woman in the world was ready to pursue him. My God, even I was somewhat ready to pursue him…. Actually, I did, but that's another story—moving on.

"Erm, well, maybe, I don't know, really. I mean, I'm sure he has a girlfriend or something, and I'm only thirteen, so…" On the issue of Light Kushiel and girlfriends, he actually doesn't have one. He has what is called a harem. In this harem, he has various women who consider themselves lucky enough to be even looked at by him, let alone be taken to his shining bedroom where he keeps his chains and handcuffs. Despite the fact that he doesn't own chains or handcuffs…. I don't even know if he owns a bed, but it's a nice image all the same.

"Can't start too early." Takada winked, a brief image before the camera returned to her top yet again. One could almost make out the sounds of Soichiro frothing at the mouth and cursing profusely under his breath.

"Do you have any other questions?" Soichiro Yagami asked betweens splutters, his mind locked on the idea of his daughter having sweaty love with his wife's bastard child in a dark room filled with iron and steel. Because really, that's what romantic relationships are all about—the cold iron chains.

"No, not really, but would you mind giving a good description of your wife's son to our audience?" Good, meaning erotic and sensual—one that made every woman in the world shudder in ecstasy. Of course, even Takada was not blatant enough to say it out loud, but it was obvious all the same.

"Fine. He's thin, his eyes are red, he wears too much black, and he looks like he wants to kill someone."

Needless to say, Soichiro didn't understand the point.

"That's nice…" Nice, as in, not helpful at all; our imaginations did better than you could have done, you old coot.

The interview ended abruptly, interrupted by several beer commercials, as it wasn't actually going anywhere. This is the reason I stopped paying Comcast. Cable television just wasn't worth it anymore.

_I've been an angel all year_

**The Underground Messenger—12/09/09**

**SANTA CLAUS IS A SEX ICON**

**[…even moreso than Mormon vampire families, Severus Snape, and Marilyn Manson… quite possibly even moreso than the resulting love child of said threesome]**

Yes, that's right. Remember the fat man who was kind to children? Gone, long gone, my friends. My editor has gone nuts. He isn't even sure what to do with himself, he's so excited about this new proposition. What am I talking about, you ask? This, I am talking about Light Kushiel.

Light Kushiel, the erotic fallen angel who sends every girl into seizures of want; Light Kushiel, who is depicted with chains and whips; Light Kushiel, who supposedly wears leather underwear and always has an extra pair of handcuffs on hand. Scarlet-eyed, lithe Light Kushiel who makes everyone want to fall on their knees in servitude.

Posters are being mass-produced of this sex creature—pictures of him half-naked, I might add, drawn with the artist's vivid imagination in full work. Why, even in my own newspaper, the pictures have become frighteningly detailed… almost, I might say, good.

I look out upon the world and I ask myself, have we gone mad? We are worshipping a half-breed fallen angel simply because he looks good in a pin-striped suit. Have we lost our minds? We are more than lust, we are more than our desire, we are more than the fanmail that buries the North Pole every day!

Humanity, I ask you to remember yourselves. Good day and good night, and let's pray we remember where we are on the morning after.

Post script

I flipped to the picture section of our newspaper and noticed the winged portrait of the naked, stretching, Light Kushiel. Humanity, control yourselves, please.

_Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight_

**Naomi's Autobiography—commentary on the infamous short story, "All I Want For Christmas"**

**Softcore Erotica Penned by Sayu Yagami**

"They had lots of sex against a wall. Her butt hurt and her wrists burned as if she had dipped them in really cold strawberry-scented water, then dipped them in really hot strawberry-scented water, then left them there and they got all prune-y.

'Oh Light,' she cried. His throbbing battering ram pushing against her. She gasped. Excited by his large hands that moved up and down her body. Her chains rattled as she tried to move closer to him. He laughed, velvet laughter that smelled like sex and strawberry-scented Glade candles.

'Samu, my darling, you're so very pulchritudinous. I want to eat you like a honey-dipped truffle that's been coated in my own strawberry scented sweat, now be subservient to me! FEEL THE WEIGHT OF THE CHAINS ON YOUR WRISTS AND MY LITHE HANDS AS THEY MOVE DOWN YOUR BELLY!'

She groaned, it was too much, the Pumpkin King's hands were so sensual and smooth, he must have used strawberry-flavored hand-creame. His velvet sheets tangled about them in sweet ecstacy, his sweat tasting like chocolate-covered strawberries on her lips, his scarlet eyes filled with freckles of light that held deep pools of wisdom and lust and resembled a panda.

'Light I love you!' Samu Imagay cried, her voice so lustful and sensous and husky and bedroom-filling and echoing and mind-shattering and clouded by pleasure. That the great Pumpkin King shuddered at the heat of their passion, groaning as she pressed against him.

'Sayamu, my bucket of beauteous free hot sex sunshine, your chains are far too loose for such pleasure as this. We need to tighten them up!'

And so his great hands moved from her to the iron chains about her wrists. She shuddered in the absence of him, wanting more of his sweet touch, but so unable to grasp for it, because her arms were stuck to the wall.

'Light I NEED YOU NOW! I NEED YOU INSIDE ME!!!'"

Well. That was titillating.

Needless to say, I did not write this. Sayu Yagami wrote this lovely piece of work. Or should I say, Samu Imagay. Yes, well, there are so many things wrong with this piece that I can only think of one to comment on.

Light does not have mastery over time and space—or rather, not complete mastery. While he does partake in teleportation and the mutation of the time space continuum, it is generally for a purpose. He has never lost control of this ability in the middle of love-making. Or at least, not to my knowledge. If he did, then it would be much worse than switching from a bed to a wall to a bed again, or whatever it was. Maybe it was a wall to a bed to a wall again. I don't care.

If Light had that little control over himself, then Samu might have found herself in a lion's den accidently—or perhaps the middle of the North Pole. Near would have loved that one. The fact that she believes he can change places in the middle of ejaculation is ridiculous. Besides, he has no desire to move from a wall to a bed—he infinitely prefers the wall. Actually, he prefers to do it on the Christmas Tree—that way, they're stuck with pine needles and covered in sap by the time he's done. Call it revenge.

This novel is why I stopped reading literature, and why I no longer lecture Light Kushiel on not keeping up to date in the literary world. Why scar his eyes?

This is also the reason why I decided to help Light Yagami. If he had this much crap selling about him, he must be worth a fortune—literally. Besides, Near was more than ready to throw me out after that wine incident.

_Santa cutie, there's one thing I really do need, the deed_

* * *

**Scourge's Note: **BDSM or not BDSM? Also on the topic of Microsoft Word... there were only three highlights for the grammar of the soft-core erotica section. And now we know why teachers want us to know grammar ourselves. At any rate, I actually read a fic involving the comment about pianos. It was Carlisle x Bella. Carlisle was a male dominatrix. He had rings installed on every conceivable piece of furniture. Houseguest: ...Why are there chains underneath your dining-room table? Carlisle: Oh, I have a dog. Her name is Bella. (Which should have happened, and would have happened if I were writing it, but I wasn't, and it didn't. And apparently, the only houseguests Carlisle has are fellow BDSM fiends. Ah well. More's the pity.) And the ballet-dancing cat must have been Snape about to rape Hermione. Maybe it was Ron dressed as Snape about to knock up Harry, whose body Snape was possessing. I dunno. Something like that. It's hard to keep straight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Files of Doctor Lawrence G. Philmore—memory from unknown day of captivity**

**L Lawliet: Meeting Thirteen**

"He ate apples like they were cookies, warm chocolate chip cookies…" At this, L Lawliet's hands darted out to take two more cookies meant purely for decoration. The psychiatrist realized it was of no avail to tell the former heir that today's cookies weren't actually cookies, but plastic. He was happier that way.

"He just hovered there for days on end, doing nothing but eating apples and laughing. It was brilliant. I couldn't have tortured a man better myself. I thought I was evil once, but no, that thing, Mr. Oogie Boogie, is the master and I am but his student. He and his apples for days, weeks, years, it seems like." Three more decorative cookies gone in a flash.

"Can you imagine… twenty-four hours a day, nothing but crunching? Not a sight or a sound but crunching as he chewed on apples and I slowly starved to death. I imagined that I was an apple, being eaten away by the monster. It was the worst experience of my life. Well, no, actually the morning after was when Light Kushiel found me curled into a ball believing I was a beautiful apple. That was the worst moment of my life."

The psychiatrist wrote down schizophrenic next to nut-job and loony, then made a note to buy more real cookies, watching as the treats disappeared into the former heir's bottomless stomach.

_Come and trim my Christmas tree_

**North Pole Files—Christmas 2009**

**Gift Request List: # 1 - 25**

Strawberries

Fondue set

Boxed set of The Sexcapades of Samu Imagay

1x steel handcuffs, 2x fuzzy pink handcuffs, 1x puppy

Lots of chains

Boxed set of The Sexcapades of Samu Imagay

A new piano

Hamster

Pony (not the animal)

The Complete Nietzsche

Boxed set of The Sexcapades of Samu Imagay

Boxed set of The Sexcapades of Samu Imagay

Light Kushiel's hot body in my bed

Skateboard

Sex from Santa

Something fun in exchange for my Christmas cookies

Boxed set of The Sexcapades of Samu Imagay

Leather pants

Rhoopies

Fish

To lick Santa's strawberry popsicle toes

Boxed set of The Sexcapades of Samu Imagay

Twilight Saga

The Resurrection of Lazarus

World Peace… And sex with Light Kushiel

_With some decorations bought at Tiffany's_

**The Underground Messenger—12/15/09**

**LIGHT KUSHIEL REORDERS TIME**

**[…without eighties music]**

Well, the Pumpkin King (who apparently is more lickable than Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Zac Effron, and David Bowie combined into a Rocky Horror-esque orgy… complete with a pool and corsets) decided that the Twenty-Fifth of December was a little too late for him. Yes, our dear Pumpkin King decided to break a tradition that has spanned since the Christians tried to convert the Romans (because that's what Christmas is all about, really.)

Christmas shall no longer take place on the twenty-fifth, but rather on the twentieth of December. Goddamn you, Pumpkin King—you have destroyed all sense of holiday spirit and tradition. How dare you defile our sacred holiday dreams of gaining too much weight and giving spoiled children their new presents? HOW DARE YOU?!

I no longer believe in Santa Claus. I only believe in a fickle narcissist who believes he is God and has the nerve to change holiday dates when they don't fit his busy schedule. Well, screw you, Pumpkin King… (not literally; he's had far too much screwing lately) and I hope you rot in hell where you belong, you dirty paedophile.

Yes, well, that's all I have to say about that. I saw a beggar the other day, proclaiming it was the end of days (once again—he did it last Tuesday as well). He looked very persuasive, as persuasive as any crack addict can be. This is Mello, your reporter, pondering on his mortality. Good evening and goodnight.

(Page 3-D, picture of David Bowie, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Zac Effron, and David Bowie… all in a mass pool orgy with Light Kushiel the Pumpkin King. Strangely, I found myself attracted to it as well. Excuse me while I puke into the waste basket.)

_I really do believe in you_

**Naomi's Autobiography—memory of first Christmas with Light Kushiel**

**Chapter Four: Regarding the Origin of the Statutory Rape Charges and Subsequent Court Cases**

A child sends a letter to the North Pole every year—a female child, to be precise—but in the first year of Light's reign, something new came onto her list: Hawt and ferius sex on the floor. Yes, those were her exact badly spelled words, written in Crayola crayons. And this was just one letter, after all; imagine thousands with the same exact desire. What is Christmas but giving small children (little women) what they desire?

And oh, have these little women gotten what they wanted. They've gotten their greatest fantasy in the flesh, his… strawberry scented flesh…. He'll kill me when he reads this.

Sadly, the first set of parents did not share their children's wants and needs, so when they found the sweat-covered Pumpkin King straddling their chained daughter beneath him, a look of wrath unholy written upon his features (the daughter had a much more enraptured expression… there are various pictures on the internet)… they were rather enraged.

No, they were not too happy. Or at least, the husbands were not, because the wives couldn't help but notice his lean, sculpted chest and didn't have the desire to look away. Of course, the husbands noticed this as well, and were even more furious than they had been before. And this was what lead to the eventual charges of statutory rape, thousands of times over. Light visited many houses, after all… many daughters to see, wives to visit—sons too, in some cases. Oh yes, Light was a very busy man on December the Twentieth.

When he came back shirtless, (he managed to steal some pants from one of the households in Germany) covered in sweat, he looked as if he were ready to die. Apparently, the power of Christmas had consequences neither of us could have ever predicted.

Who would have ever thought Santa Claus would become an idol of BDSM erotica?

_Let's see if you believe in me_

**Files of Doctor Lawrence G. Philmore—memory about the aftermath of Christmas**

**L Lawliet: Meeting Fourteen**

"He tried to give it back." The traumatized young man crouched behind the couch with a plate of cookies balanced across his knees (the psychiatrist had bothered buying real ones for this meeting). "He kidnapped me, gave me to a paedophilic clown who chained me to a wall and grinned like a rapist, stole the job I wanted nothing to do with, and then attempted to convince me that I should do him a favor by growing a beard, gaining three hundred pounds, and having sex with young children. Because everyone knows Santa is all about the sex."

The psychiatrist decided not to tell L about the statutory rape lawsuits. The isolation of a mental ward had many benefits upon the sanity of its occupants; what the true heir didn't know about how many children Santa had debauched certainly wouldn't cause a psychotic regression involving elephants, teacups, and tables.

That and what father wanted to recount his personal experience of finding his daughter beneath the all-too-delicious Pumpkin King—the shirtless, pantsless, boxerless, sockless… although he did have a pair of fuzzy handcuffs….

No, best not to remember the awkward dinner conversation the day after. Or the fact that his daughter looked as if she actually enjoyed the experience… immensely…. And he certainly would not bring it up with any patient, least of all this patient.

"Why didn't you take it back?" For the love of god, why didn't he take it back? He would rather have the anorexic devil himself shimmy down the chimney than… the Pumpkin King. Oh, the world would have been so much better if only L Lawliet had reclaimed the throne.

"Because I never wanted the job. I hate children. I grew up in a bloody orphanage. Children are bloodthirsty little demons who hide in corners of houses like vermin, sneaking sex behind your back and eating your cookies when you're not paying attention."

The psychiatrist duly noted the lack of cookies on the plate, no doubt devoured when he hadn't been paying attention.

"Children are a disease, a disease that should be eradicated from humanity. This selfishness—Santa Claus is merely a symptom. He is a limb upon the monstrous Christmas tree of human hierarchy, consumerism, feminism, reality television, Tom Cruise, telemarketers, terrible tasting fish that's supposed to be healthy for you but really isn't because the government LIES! They are all limbs on the damn tree—no, we must light the tree on fire! LIGHT IT ON FIRE AND PLACE IT UPON A HILL ABOVE JERUSELUM FOR ALL TO SEE!"

The heir stood, slamming his plate against his knee; it shattered. It wasn't a very expensive plate….

"And the children, they will be the first to burn! Hellfire will consume them all, and they shall repent, but be denied. The damned will rot in Hell with children, murderous dangerous little demons who infest every facet of our rotting society! WE MUST DESTROY THE CHILDREN! ONLY THEN SHALL HUMANITY PREVAIL! Come with me—together you and I shall wipe their charred remains from the face of the planet. Like Godzilla attacking Tokyo, we shall be a giant invincible lizard! THAT NOT EVEN THE MILITARY CAN STOP! Because we are more powerful than the military, we lizard-like beings! Now come with me! Come with me!"

"I'm afraid we're not quite as close as you think we are." The psychiatrist wondered idly if L had been reading the Sexcapades of Samu Imagay. It could have explained the psychotic break, and the metaphors certainly sounded similar. Although Godzilla wasn't strawberry-flavored. Or was he?

_Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring_

**Court Transcripts—January 2009**

**Trial of Light Kushiel: Verdict, Not Guilty**

Light Kushiel: Your honor, I wish to say, in my defense, that these little whores were more than willing. Most of them had their own pair of handcuffs at the ready, as well as various date rape drugs in the milk and cookies. I have never been so violated in one night as I was the night of December the 20th. I have blisters on my—

Jury Member 1: Eep!

Light Kushiel: Excuse me, pervert, I was going to say I had blisters on my spleen. You humans are ridiculous. This is exactly what I am talking about—see how he immediately assumed I was talking about—

Jury Member 2: Oh my God, there are children present!

Light Kushiel: I was going to say 'strawberries,' and most of the children in this room have raped me, so I have no qualms about polluting their venomous, putrid little minds with words like—

Jury Member 3: What the hell is wrong with you?

Light Kushiel: Pulchritudinous?

Jury Member 2: I never did remember to look that word up….

Attorny: Are you saying, then, Mr. Kushiel, that all 1003 of the children present have raped you in the course of a single night—which I believe is not even physically possible?

Light Kushiel: You know, there's a funny thing about Santa Claus. He can be everywhere at once, and I _do_ mean everywhere at once. So it is entirely plausible that I could be raped by all of these children at the same time.

Attorny: But you do claim that these children raped you, the Pumpkin King, illegitimate child of the angel of Punishment?

Light Kushiel: Of course. What else have I been talking about for the past three and a half hours of Hell in a courtroom setting?

Jury Member 1: Pulchritudinous-ness?

Light Kushiel: Do you even know what that means?

Jury Member 1: … I never looked it up either….

Light Kushiel: Goddammit, someone find me a dictionary. You humans are pathetic. Really, it's your language, after all!

Jury Member 3: I'm proud to say I have never read the Sexcapades of Samu, especially not chapter 36, where Samu discovers that she is pregnant with Light Kushiel's love child, whose name is a combination of Sachiko and Kushiel—Sashimi∂! And who turns out to be a lovely child who is very intelligent, more intelligent than most normal adults, and grows at a rate that seems impossible so that they can have incestuous BDSM threesomes against his wall and in his pool at the same time.

Judge: Well, I believe we have a clear idea of the realities of this case.

Naomi Misora: More realities than any sane half-elf would ever wish to know. I agree with my client—you humans are disgusting.

Light Kushiel: This is why you aren't in my harem; you think too much like me, and sexual solipsism is a line I won't cross… at least, not for two hundred years.

Naomi Misora: I'm not sure whether that was a compliment or a thinly veiled insult.

Light Kushiel: Most definitely an insult.

Naomi Misora: You just insulted yourself, then.

Light Kushiel: Dammit, then we're going to have to have sex after all. When do you want to do it?

Naomi Misora: Why are we having sex?

Light Kushiel: You want to do it right now on the floor like a pair of animals? I don't have any chains on me, but I'm sure some jury member will be happy to oblige.

Naomi Misora: … I'm leaving….

Light Kushiel: But the fun has only just begun. Come on, darling, I can party all night long.

_I don't mean a phone_

**The Underground Messenger—01/09/09**

**THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF THEIR LIVES**

**[…truth is subjective]**

Only a vague summary of the court records were released to the public, due to the fact that half of them were lost in the disaster only known only as "The Greatest Orgy Ever Known to Man." Needless to say, this act happened after Light Kushiel foolishly stated that he could 'party all night long,' because that's when all hell broke loose.

Groping, caressing, fondling, molesting, raping, grinding, sweet monkey loving on a table…. They did it all…. WHY THE HELL WASN'T I THERE?! This mass orgy has gone down in history as the single most splendiforous moment in human history, and I wasn't there. What the hell. Damn you, Pumpkin King. I could have brought my stripper outfit! Because everyone knows I can look like a straight up ho when I want to. The leather's as tight as he wants it…. Damn you, Pumpkin King, why do I want you now?

It's all the editor's fault. I found the picture section, but this time it was an actual picture instead of a drawing! DAMN YOU, EDITOR! This was the last thing I needed—I just put the leather and the rosary back in the closet!

Yes, well, the orgy caused a riot of people to attempt breaking into the courtroom, because everyone wanted a piece of Light Kushiel's strawberry-scented pulchritude. I can taste his ass now…. Delicious….

Only a small portion of the jury managed to avoid the rapidly-stripping mass of young women/angry fathers and husbands, as well as the center where the glory of the Pumpkin King was contained, where they ripped off his clothing in a matter of seconds to display his strawberry-scented skin. The skin I didn't get to lick.

Well, this small group of Jury members managed to wait out the violence and survived the orgy. (The rest apparently died of pleasure, except for Naomi Misora, who still managed to be fully clothed in a turtle-neck sweater after the ordeal was done.) And that is how we have heard this amazing story. Who said glorious sex didn't kill?

From what my sources at the North Pole have told me, the immortal Light Kushiel, having successfully fulfilled the Christmas desires of the world, is stuck in the position of Santa Claus until death. So that means… this will all happen again… everything… all over again next year… and the year after… and the year after… for all of your lifetime… and all of your children's lifetimes… and your grandchildren's lifetimes… and their cousins' lifetimes… and your cat's lifetime….

Happy New Years, world. May God have mercy on your sex-deprived souls.

_  
Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight_

_

* * *

_**Scourge's Note: Tada. Just in time. Do let us know what you think. Hope your ride was as entertaining as ours.**


End file.
